In 1994 I was a student in Napa Valley at the Beringer School for American Chefs.  The director and my instructor was Madeleine Kamman.  In our introduction to what lay ahead, we traveled around the valley talking about the geology of the place, how tectonics affected earth – which led to expressions of terrior in the wines of Howell Mountain.  Later we discussed an ancient recipe – ligamen – a condiment of Mediterranean origin.  As Madeleine discussed her own investigation of this recipe, she shared her conviction that cinnabar, mercury oxide, was one of the ingredients, a poisonous one.  This led to pondering the collapse of the Roman Empire and what affect a common poisonous food might have on a civilization.

Over the ensuing weeks, we wondered across many cultures, landscapes and flavors reflecting on the impact of salt or why the wines of Italy seem to marry so well with tomato – things food – doors unto the world.

That key there discovered is always in my pocket when I walk outside my door.  I have also started carrying a set of knives and a map of where the local markets are.  Together, these form my travel ‘kit’.

Where ever I travel, I insist on cooking a meal for my hosts, many whom are wine growers.  I never know what door will open, what insight shared or unique experience revealed.  The travel experiences I cherish most are personal experiences that connect that particular moment to a larger time and place – an affirmation of our individual lives having connection to a greater whole.

The first time I used my ‘travel kit’ was in Pommard, France in the home of Lydia and Jean Luc Joillot.  The Joillots are wine growers.  I was in France and in their home in preparation for a small group that would be arriving a few days hence to tour the region, eating and drinking their way across Burgundian landscape.

This was not the first time we had met.  On Sunday morning, Lydia took me to the local market in Chagny, to scout supplies for later in the week and to purchase food for our own dinner that day.

I chose guinea fowl, a pheasantlike bird native to Africa, a bird having blackish plumage with many small white markings (almost resembling the checked trousers chefs traditionally wear).  Also at market that day were fresh red currents.  These two ingredients were to be the center of our meal.

Prior to the meal, I was invited to tour their personal wine cellar.  Jean Luc and I found we had a number of similar favorites, especially the Rhone wines from Jean Luc Colombo.

After a fashion, we sat down to lunch, starting with a few fresh prawns quickly tossed in hot butter and garlic to be followed by the breast of the hen which I seared with a bit of diced bacon.  For the sauce, I made a little stock from the bones and together with a bit of red wine, reduced the currents with wine and stock.  With a keen eye, Jean Luc watched all this.  Originally he selected his own wine for the meal.  However, upon first taste of the fowl, he jumped up, disappeared into the cellar and returned with a well aged Rhone made by J. L. Colombo.  His selection was an epiphany – we could not tell where the wine stopped and the hen and sauce started, or perhaps it was the other way round.  Our lunch was delightful.

This though, was only the prelude.  The key fit the door, yet to be opened.
That evening, we all agreed that the noonday meal had been rich, filling and impossible to top (that day anyhow).  So a simple meal of a few fresh sardines, some salad and bit of cheese was in keeping.  Dinner was set outside, the evening slightly cool.

(I need to back track a bit here, until now, any conversation I had was in my very limited French (20 words, maybe) or Lydia’s hilarious and endearing attempts at English – when Jean Luc spoke, it was always French).

At cheese, Jean Luc once again disappeared into the cellar, this time returning with a bottle of wine, covered in mold and without a label.  I tried to understand as he explained to Lydia – “mystery bottle – guess what it is”.  The wine was opened, tasted, and an excited exchange pursued as Lydia was saying “no, no, no” and Jean Luc was saying “oui, oui, oui” and then “oui, ma mere”.  Which I understood – “yes, my mother”.

At this point, Jean Luc turned to me and in halting English told me the story of this bottle of wine.  I knew parts of the story, but never from Jean Luc and never in English.

As a boy of 12, Jean Luc lost his father, then his uncle to heart disease.  In the Burgundian tradition, Jean Luc would normally take on the responsibility of wine making and heading the family.  Being too young, it was his mother who took up the family business and made their wine.  In the ‘60s much of the wine of Burgundy was produced and sold either to a coop or to a negotiant.  Most families could not afford the cost of a bottling line, nor had the market to sell them.  In the Joillots’ case, they bottled about 10% of their production to sell to friends and keep for the family.

The bottle just opened was one of these bottles, one made by his mother 25 years ago.  Once a year, Jean Luc opens some of his mother’s wine.  He chose this night.

Now, whenever I walk through the vineyards in Pommard, I no longer just see grapes growing, I see the family Joillot hand working the grapes,  begin to understand their culture; the history of this piece of earth.

All important, the key of food opened the door to the real story of the wine and the region – it’s people.

Jean Luc Joillot is the vigneron at Domaine Jean Luc Joillot, Pommard, France.  He was the youngest person to become a vigneron in Pommard, at the age of 21.  Currently, he is president of the Pommard wine makers association.  His mother travels frequently, hikes and gathers wild asparagus for me, when I visit.  Their son has spent a summer in Asheville, working in the restaurant and learning English.